No Escape
by Mirie
Summary: Is it possible to forget? Can one be forgotten? Peter Pettigrew reflects on the irreversibility of one's deeds, and on the difficulty of obtaining deliverance. One-shot


**Disclaimer: Harry Potter et al belongs to JK Rowling. **

_Obliviate._

The Memory Charm has always been his favourite, not because he was particularly adept at performing it, but because of the word's ambiguity. The charm was based on the Latin _oblivisci_, "to forget," and the modern English equivalent is the word _oblivion, _the state of forgetfulness. 

Oh, how his former friends would have laughed, had they known about his fascination with etymologies. Well, perhaps not Remus, who might just smile and nod encouragingly. 

What does it feel like to be Obliviated, to be in a perpetual state of ignorance and uncertainty? How he wanted to sneak into St. Mungo's, to seek that hapless fool who managed to Obliviate himself. He wanted to pester him with all his questions, to see for himself that yes, it is indeed possible to forget everything, to wipe one's slate clean.

He stood up, moved towards the mirror that hung on the far side of his dreary room. It was an old thing, tainted with various spots of who knew what. An uneven crack ran down the middle if the glass, distorting the face that looked expressionlessly back at him. He slowly touched the cold glass, his trembling silver hand caressing his mangled face.

Can Lockhart even recognize his face? Or does he ask, "Who is that?" every time he looks into a mirror? Some said that Lockhart has lost all sense of self. If that is true, then he is a lucky man. Ghosts cannot haunt a man who is lost, a man without a past.

Peter was a haunted man. As night fell and the world was submerged into suffocating darkness, ghosts came out to plague him. A special breed of ghost, nothing like the silvery spectres that traverse the halls of Hogwarts; rather, these were phantoms that haunted his mind and fed on his soul. 

He can still remember the first time he killed. He refused to say "murdered," for that seemed to be too harsh a word. "To kill" is nothing special; one killed insects all the time. 

The Dark Lord, in order to test his loyalty and sincerity, had required an offering to be made, a Muggle offering. He had decided to do it at night. It was a young man, a teenager who had failed to apologize for bumping into him. It was easier to kill someone you hated, someone who had wronged you. The sacrifice was just another nameless face, an indistinguishable component of the anonymous Muggle throng.  He had pursued the Muggle silently for what felt like an eternity, following him around the streets of London. In a busy intersection, while waiting for the traffic lights to turn, he had seized his chance. He moved towards the Muggle, stood behind him, so close that he could already see the mole on his nape, and surreptitiously cast the Killing Curse. He had been too slow, though. He should have left immediately, but he didn't. He couldn't. The Muggle's limp body fell into his arms, his glassy eyes staring right into him.

His first spectre. There are countless others, for he has killed so many times now.

The temptation to cast the charm on himself was overwhelming. His fingers itched for his wand, the word at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be uttered. 

Could he do it? 

Would he?

_Oblivion_ is also defined asthe state of being forgotten. What an interesting concept. Is this possible? Can one be erased from the face of the earth? Will this state of being forgotten be no different from the forgetfulness brought about by death, by the eventual neglect caused by the passage of time? Or, will one's very existence be itself forgotten, as if one has never been at all? For after death, even after the cessation of remembrance, it is undeniable that one has existed. 

Ghosts cannot haunt one who has never existed. And maybe, just maybe, ghosts themselves can be capable of forgetting.

A persistent spectre haunted not only his dreams but also his waking moments. The face of a boy, who is too thin for his age, with eyes that are infinitely sad, was etched on every aspect of his being. The boy's bespectacled eyes accused Peter of murder, the murder of his parents. His gaunt face screamed at him, "You have made me this way. You have starved me, physically and emotionally. You have locked me in that cupboard-under-the-stairs for ten years. You have robbed my godfather and me of precious years together; you have taken our past and our future." The boy's unmoving mouth repeatedly called him a murderer.

No matter that he didn't kill his parents. No matter that he wasn't the one who locked the boy in that cupboard. No matter that his hands didn't push the godfather through that veil. 

Was it really all his fault? He never meant for any of those to happen. Is he really to blame? 

He liked to think not, but ghosts have a stubborn way of turning a deaf ear to his pleas and defences. 

Muggles have another peculiar definition for _oblivion_: the official ignoring of offences.

Are spectres capable of forgiveness, of granting pardons and reprieves?

_Obliviate. _

It was easy to merely think of the word.

"Obliviate." 

His voice was calm, the word coming out loud and clear. His hand reached for his wand, buried inside the pocket of his frayed robe. He forced his hand to stop trembling, to point his wand at his sweaty forehead. His hand shook uncontrollably, making his wand poke painfully into his right eye. 

"You're a coward," the nameless boy called out.

"Yes, you're a coward," the thin boy wearing glasses agreed. 

The other phantoms laughed derisively at him, mocking him. 

He looked up into the mirror. Two faces looked back at him: one was crying, while the other was wearing a grotesque smile.


End file.
